


The Nerve

by V3RT1G0



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Kidding! I love you all, M/M, Murder Kink, contains murder, i have 1 emotion: hubris, just a warning, this is why you don't get discord, typical ToS stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16737178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V3RT1G0/pseuds/V3RT1G0
Summary: This was not his fucking job.





	The Nerve

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Pyro, also Ari owes me art now. Have fun. The title fits surprisingly and is a Brobecks song (what else do you expect); https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnpjqrTIluw

Luciano didn’t want to be here. It was fucking cold, for one thing. Fuck. He wished he could just do his normal fucking job— kill someone, shoot someone, stab someone, strangle someone, or hell, he wasn’t fond of pushing people from heights but he’d take that, take anything over the waiting. This was just pointless. Veronica and her fucking strategy, her collaboration, she was maybe right but his way was more effective. One by one, pick them off, piece by piece out of the Jenga tower. It worked. Was simple. Was quick.

 _This_ was not. This was purgatory. This was him leaning against a dirty, pockmarked brick wall, in the shade of an alley. Luciano the mafioso, Luciano the pawn, Luciano who yes, sure, would fucking do whatever you told him to. He didn’t fucking care about loyalty or that shit. He did this damn job because he got to kill people and silence some of the shit people said in this town, but mainly for the raw feel of him, a gun, a victim. It was good, most of the time, except when Veronica made him play dress up and be a negotiator.

He wanted his fucking kill, that was the deal. Instead, alley, waiting, for some fucking _middle party_ , some _asset_ , whatever bullshit Veronica had called it. _No attacking him_ , she’d said, _he’s_ _going to help us out_. Fuck you, no, they were fine.

So Luciano shut up and tapped his foot lazily against the filthy asphalt ground. Some fucking wimp was gonna show up. Someone like that fucking Amnesiac. Useless. The night was void of moonlight, too. Perfect, no Werewolf. No light, either. Usually he’d be able to take out at least three people on a good night like this one.

Then a small rustle, and a blade to his neck. He had fucking good reflexes, thank you very much— but the knife was pressed against his throat before he could move. Better than the Amnesiac, then, at least, but still useless, too careless. Luciano clamped his free hand down on one of the attacker’s fingers and twisted until he heard a snap, and the knife loosened. Sharp intake of breath, no scream, no cry. Interesting. He stepped away, trying to see who was there.

“You’re Luciano.” It was not phrased to be a question.

“Igor? If you’re not him, you’d better fucking explain.” Luciano said, not answering the other’s statement.

“You’re the… associate, aren’t you? Mhm?” Igor’s voice was brittle and low, like a rotted twig, snapped by someone’s boot.

“Yeah. Don’t fucking try that shit again, I’ll get your whole fucking hand.” Luciano meant it. He didn’t like this whole third party shit one bit.

Igor didn’t seem to care about his finger or Luciano’s threat; his finger dangled misshapenly, just dislocated, and his face barely betrayed anything besides passive amusement. “We have a deal, I assume? I help you take down the numbers a bit, you cover for me?”

The deal’s _not_ _fucking happening_ , Luciano wanted to say. But he liked the comfort, the sandbox of murder his job gave him, so instead, “Something like that. You’re just another gun, or whatever, knife, okay? You’re not a partner.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t what Veronica and I discussed, don’t worry,” Igor said, his tone dipping into a near purr. “You’re safe from me _dominating_ your… organization.”

Luciano didn’t come here to entertain fucking flirting. “You never fucking out any of us, got it? I’ll fucking shoot you if you try.” He cornered Igor towards the wall, at that. Got up in his face, despite the difference in height. He could feel the warm, hot breath between his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. Close. “Don’t fucking try _anything_.”

Igor leant in, slotting his body against the other’s. He lowered his head to Luciano’s ear, tongue tracing the shell, spit slicking the skin. Luciano did not move; Igor slung an arm around his neck, boxing him in. This was fucking toeing the line of what he’d put up with. He wasn’t the fucking consort. Lecherous and slow, Igor said, “There’s someone here, listening behind the dumpster, just so you know.”

Luciano kicked Igor’s shin—hard enough to bruise—to worm his way out of the grip, whirling to see the aforementioned dumpster. Fuck. Of course. Fucking asset screwing over his focus. The gun slid out of his holster with barely a sound as he crept across the alley. Igor’s gaze was hot on the back of his neck. Stalking his prey. _Predatory_.

“Get on the fucking ground,” Luciano said to the shadowy figure, no, commanded, watching the pitiful Tracker squirm to her knees in front of him. His breathing grew heavier as he pointed his gun, lining up the easy shot, savoring it. Loving the feel. The comfort, the whimpers of the inferior victim at his feet. The power. “You know what, I’m feeling merciful tonight, fucking run.”

She did— as soon as she turned around and started to flee, Luciano fired, finger light on the trigger. Felt the smoky energy charge his veins. Watched her corpse fold forwards, head leaking red onto concrete, clothes matted with blood. God, it was fucking _exhilarating_. This was what his fucking job was, just this.

“Messy,” Igor remarked, leaning lasciviously against the wall of the alley, “gets blood everywhere. Coward’s way out, too—pretending you’ll let them get away. It’s not mercy, it’s just for you, makes you feel better, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” Luciano growled, carelessly shoving his gun back in its holster. His night had just gotten much better, and now it was back to shit. Fucking asset. Cocky. Useless. He stalked closer to him.

Igor smirked, eyes narrowing, like locking a target, cutting the safety on a gun. “It’s just selfish, so you don’t have to see them fall, so you can still pretend there’s a drop of humanity in you. You’re pathetic.”

It was the punch to the jaw that sealed the deal.

Luciano’s fist hit the bone before he could tell himself to swing harder, to break something, like Igor’s nose. Igor was smiling still, lip split, blood dripping slow down his chin. He licked his lips. Luciano smashed his mouth into Igor’s in some resemblance of a kiss, more blood and pain than what’s it was intended to be. Slammed him into the wall, let his nails scrape down his exposed biceps. He fucking hated him. Igor was wrong. Tasted like his own blood, too, and damn if that didn't go straight to his dick.

Igor fisted a hand in Luciano’s hair and yanked it back, meant to hurt his neck the next day, he could tell. He smelled like gunpowder and tasted like death, like the metallic grind of a knife sharpener. Luciano melted into it, let himself enjoy it, pretended Igor wasn’t such a huge fucking bastard.

With a laugh and a harsh, deep bite into the other’s lower lip, Igor pulled away, spitting blood onto the asphalt as he kneed Luciano’s groin, shoving him away. “Thanks, this was fun, but I should go if I want to uphold our deal starting tonight.”

Luciano didn’t entirely doesn’t know what to say, just basked in the throbbing pain and the sight of Igor beat up and bloody. What a _thot_. Fucking waste of time, and he wasn’t even gonna fuck him? After that? Damnit.

“We should do this again. Meet me after a kill, seems to really get you going,” Igor said, voice rougher and headier than it was before, a hint of lust in his eyes betraying the grin on his blood-splattered face. “See you around.”

Luciano watched him with contempt as he left, angry at how fucking rude he was, just leaving him after something like that. Fuck. He turned away. This was not his fucking job.


End file.
